hief Editor Rod Porter slammed the article I had given him down on his desk. "Stupid isn't the word for this piece, Gale; idiotic isn't even strong enough. Wasn't it enough that you killed two of LeGrand's top hoods last night? Isn't that enough?" But a smile was on his lips and a twinkle was in his hard brown eyes.

"They killed my husband Bill! He was hot onto 'em, and they killed him because he was too close. He --" I bit my lip, then continued, "was only twenty-six years old!"

The Chief pointed at my article. "In this piece, you say Bill gave you all the ammo you needed to pull LeGrand down, and that you only need a judge to issue a warrant. Was that a lie?"

"It was bait, Chief. Bill gave me everything he had, but more work needs to be done. Still, LeGrand doesn't know that. I want him to try to come after me."

"Gale, you don't weigh a hunnerd pounds dripping wet. Why do you think you can protect yourself against LeGrand's goons?"

I reached into my large purse. "Here's one thing," I said. "Being a reporter, I carry my typewriter at all times." I held up my 'typewriter'. It was a typewriter in the sense that gangsters use -- a Tommy gun! But this one was only about eighteen inches long.

The editor's jaw dropped. "A machine gun! But it's so small."

"Small bullets, too," I told him. "It uses twenty-twos, carries a hundred at a time." I smiled.

"Twenty-twos?" he said, skeptically. "They're just glorified BBs."

"Not these," I assured him. "Hammer made my gun for me, and fixed special bullets. They have explosive heads!"

"Wow!" my editor said, astonished and pleased. "Yeah, that's more than BBs! But," he added, caution settling in, "that won't stop them from shooting you."

"I have a metal shield on my back," I told him, "and one covering my chest. Also, I keep my car in the paper's garage, where no one can get to it. At night, I keep it in my own garage. It has bulletproof glass. No one can slip explosives into it. I don't eat in public, so they can't poison me. Further, an Oriental friend of Bill's started teaching me martial arts years ago, and I'm now a black belt. I might be small, but I carry a big punch. I didn't tell you before, 'cause I thought it would be bragging." Smiling in remembrance, I added, "Bill used to call me his tiny mite of dynamite."

"They can shoot you in the head."

I shook the aforementioned head. "Too small a target, Chief. His hoods aren't marksmen."

+ + +

t happened last night. I had gone into one of LeGrand's juke joints, following up on a lead Jim had uncovered.

--Oh, I had sense enough to go wearing a disguise! I had a grey wig over my trademark long blonde hair and had used rubber cement to create wrinkles on my face.

The bozo I was after wasn't there. Shit, wasn't that mean of him? Such ingratitude! That is, he was supposed to be waiting at the bar. . .in a storybook world is. No, I had no meeting scheduled with the bastard because I didn't know how to get in touch with him -- and had no idea how to get his interest, anyway. I just went with the idea of hanging around and hoping.

Going up to the bar, I ordered a straight bourbon. The bartender looked at me and grinned. "Got ID, grandma? How do I know yer old enough?" But as he said it he was splashing whiskey into a shot glass. "Two bits, sister," he said, pushing it at me.

"Two bits?" I asked, cracking my voice. "What, it's half water?"

Grin still in place, he said, "Senior citizen discount," then added. "Things're kinda slow tonight. Feelin' generous."

To the barkeep's amazement, I down the shot in one gulp, without coughing, then slid the glass back. "Still got water in it," I said, wondering if he was also feeling generous with info. "Refill it," I said, then added, "I'm looking for a fella. Got a scar on his cheek."

Filling the glass, the guy snorted. "Hell, grandma, four outta ten guys what comes in got scars on their puss. Got anything else?"

Yeah, I had a name, but I didn't want to use it; couldn't be too obvious. "Middle-aged," I told him. "Likes young girls."

The barkeep laughed. "That don't help none. Mosta my customers fall in that category." Now his eyes narrowed, and I knew I couldn't go any further because he was starting to think. Wasn't a good idea for me to strain his braincells.

I downed the second one and shrugged. "Ne'er mind," I said. "Ain't that important." I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and settled down, looking around at the clientele. I'd just have to wait and hope.

He never showed up.

When I left the place, I thought I had done a pretty good job of covering myself. I found out the hard way that I was wrong, as an arm suddenly was wrapped around my throat from behind, and in front of me popped up a bulky hood holding an automatic.

A husky voice behind me said, "Yer coming with us, girlie. This is a knife at your back, and -- What the hell?"

Adrenalin shot through me, I knew his exclamation was caused by him feeling the point of his blade touching steel. I dropped down and threw him over my shoulder into his partner, then straightened and pulled out my typewriter. The guy with the knife was getting back to his feet, his partner was aiming his automatic at me from where he was sitting.

My typewriter stuttered at them, echoed by the explosions when the bullets hit. Blood splattered everywhere. "How's that, you bastards?" I said, and typed another note across them just for safety.

I felt great! I may not have made the contact I wanted, but I sure proved I could take care of myself. . . .It wasn't until later that I realized I had signed my own death warrant!

In the distance, sirens whined as a sports car slammed to a stop at the curb. "Get in -- quick!" the driver -- Dick Bronson, from the DA's office -- said. "Cops are coming!"

I vaulted into the front seat, ignoring the weight of my metal shields. As I hit the seat, acceleration pressed me back from Dick's explosive take-off.

Taking off my wig, I said, "Nice car! I didn't know the DA's office paid so much."

Dick gave a tight grin as he whipped around a curve. "They don't," he said. "This is a hobby of mine. I haunt junkyards. This is a combination of five different cars I got for next-to-nothing, then put together in my garage."

"Must be some garage!" I said, as we shot around another corner.

"Almost as good as Hammer's workshop," Dick said. "That tommy-gun of yours is a marvel!"

So we got away.

+ + +

t the newspaper office, I took a breath, then said to the editor, "What worries me, though, is you."

"What? Hey, listen; LeGrand has bought the police, but there's no way in Hell he can buy me!"

"I know that, Chief. What I meant was, LeGrand might decide to get at me by killing you! I don't want that--"

"Ha!" he exploded. "I've been in this business nearly all my life, Gale. My car windows have been bulletproof for years. I carry a .45 caliber pistol. I'm tough as an ox, and just about as strong. I ain't no easy target. Been tryin' a long time to get a Grand Jury to indict LeGrand. Everybody's scared of LeGrand and won't follow up. But," he went on, "since we can't rely on the police, what kind of legal protection do you have?"

"A coupla days ago I went to the DA. He wants LeGrand almost as badly as I do. He has two men keeping an eye on me. As soon as I--"

The Chief's door slammed open. Assistant DA Dick Bronson pushed a guy into the room, so roughly that he almost fell down. At first, I thought he was being a little rough. Dick was six-two, at least two hundred pounds with broad shoulders. His captive was a skinny guy in his forties, with bottle-lens glasses. . .but then I recognized him: Dynamite Corrigan, LeGrand's explosive expert.

"This joker was trying to shut the presses down," Dick said, "and the entire building, too! Caught him with the goods. Since the local jail has revolving doors for LeGrand's bunch, I'm turning him over to the Feds."

I whirled back to my friend, the editor. "That's exactly what I was talking about, Chief! When you run that article, it'll only get worse!"

"What article?" Dick asked. At the same time, my editor said, "Then why all the push for me to run it?"

Looking at Dick, I said, "The bait I told you about." Then I looked at my Chief. "I told you that was the one thing that worried me about my plan!"

My editor gave a throaty chuckle. "Gale, honey, as I told you -- I've been fighting all my life! I'm sure not gonna let LeGrand scare me off! Yeah, it's dangerous." He picked up his always-present cigar and lit it. "So's this, but I enjoy it. Just like I enjoy getting to LeGrand! We'll run your article in the afternoon edition."

When the paper came out, LeGrand tried something I wasn't prepared for. At a pay phone, I called the office to see how things were going and got straight to my editor. "Gale!" he almost shouted. "We got trouble."

"So what else is new?" I asked offhandedly.

"Let me put it this way: You have trouble. LeGrand had the cops get a warrant for your arrest! He claims he has three witnesses who saw you kill those two hoods! There's an all-points bulletin out to pick you up."

My mind chewed that over, and then I said, "Yeah -- and I'll bet the plan is that I'm to be shot resisting arrest!"

Even over the phone, I could almost smell the cloud of cigar smoke I was sure filled his office. "Probably," he said. "I could kick myself! I shoulda guess LeGrand would pull something like this."

"Not really, Chief; it isn't his style. This time, LeGrand was actually thinking! His usually tactics run to bulldozing."

"You've gotta get outta town!"

"You know me better'n that, Chief," I said. "Gimme a moment. . . ." I banged my fist against the glass of the phone booth a couple of times. Then I said, "Look, I need a disguise. I could buy me another wig -- No, he'd expect that. Wait, wait, let me think. . .I've got it! Chief, buy me a pair of blue jeans and an oversized sweater. A pair of tennis shoes. Wrap 'em and put 'em in our drop place. Get 'em there about dark. I'll figure a way to pick 'em up."

"What?" "Just do it," I told him. "I'm forming a plan." I hung up.

The alley drop presented a problem as it ran right by the newspaper building. Cops were bound to be watching there, as well as my house. But the alley ran all the way through the block, and came out beside Martindale's gigantic store. That end would be watched too, I felt sure -- however, the subway had an exit in Martindale's basement. The exit space not only had Martindale's doors, it also had a bank of elevators to Martindale's upper floors. If I could get there. . . .

Of course, that was the hitch; I had to get there! The cops would be watching for my car, but it was a black Chevy and the town was full of black Chevy's. I had done that on purpose; as a reporter, I didn't want to advertise my presence. I could smear some mud over the tag. . . .

Then it hit me: Tom and Cherie Wilkerson! They were two friends of mine and Jim's, and they backed us one hundred percent. Best of all, they lived not far from a subway entrance.

Before I left the phone booth, I put a scarf around my head to do what I could to hide my blonde hair. Another thought occurred to me, and I used lipstick to enlarge my mouth. Then I smeared my car's tag and took off.

When I knocked, Cherie opened the door and her eyes widened. "Who the hell are -- Gale!" she added, suddenly recognizing me. "Get in the house!" she said, pulling my arm. "It's all over the news! LeGrand says you slaughtered two of his 'associates' without provocation, and the cops are looking for you!" She took a deep breath and then said, "I guess that's why the disguise. Tell me about it."

I took off my scarf. "Get some scissors and I'll catch you up-to-date."

"Scissors?"

"Scissors."

When she came back with scissors, I said, "I want you to cut my hair. Give me a crewcut."

"What? But you've always been so proud of your hair."

"Pride goeth before the fall," I quipped. "I'd rather lose my hair than lose my life."

Cherie swallowed, then nodded. "I guess. Okay, talk while I cut."

As her scissors snipped, I told her about it, ending with, "So I killed 'em, no doubt of that. But there were no witnesses, and I had plenty of reason."

Cherie had finished my haircut. She put down her scissors and squeezed my arm. "More power to you, Gale. But what's this disguise you have in mind?"

"They're looking for a woman," I said, "not a teenaged boy." I started wiping lipstick off with my scarf. "Say, is there any chance. . . ." I looked at Cherie, who was six feet tall and weighed close to 180. No way I could wear any of her clothes, and Tom was six-two. "Never mind," I said.

"What was it?"

"Something I'll need, but I'll get it tonight. But," I added, as another problem popped into my mind, "is there any chance you have some kinda backpack around here?" If I were to disguise myself as a boy, I couldn't carry a purse, meaning I wouldn't have my typewriter.

"Sure," Cherie told me. "Remember, Tom and me sometimes go on long hikes?"

I slapped my forehead, touching some loose hair from my trim. "Sorry, Cherie. I've just had so much on my mind lately --"

She squeezed my arm again and interrupted, "Do tell. Here I thought you were always going around shooting hoodlums." She smiled. "Just a minute; I'll get you a backpack."

When I was transferring things from my bag and brought out my typewriter, Cherie whistled. "Whow! Who would ever take that seriously? Looks like a toy."

"A very deadly toy," I told her, "as two of LeGrand's bozos found out. The hard way."

One thing still wasn't solved; a boy doesn't wear a dress. I looked at the clock. It was nearly five. Sighing, I asked, "Could you give me a pair of your walking shorts? And I mean 'give', because you won't be able to wear 'em when I'm through. And the loan of your sewing machine."

"Of course! Follow me to the sewing room. There's a pair of shorts in there, that I intended to work on. You can rip 'em up all you want! There's good material-cutting scissors in there as well. Won't you need a shirt?"

"Dammit, yes! At least, something to cover the top and my shields. A jacket or sweatshirt or something?"

Cherie finally located a lightweight blue plastic jacket that did the trick. It would even cover the backpack. I was nowhere near a fashion icon. Worse, she had no shoes that would fit me. I discarded the idea of bathroom slippers and just decided to go barefoot.

'Fashion icon'? Oh, yeah!

I'm no seamstress other than replacing buttons and hemming, and I was in a hurry. Before dark, I had something ready . . . kinda. When I slipped the shorts on, they buttoned up -- but I had no belt! Cherie brought me a couple of belts from her closet, but the tightest I could set them still let the shorts drop. Finally, I said, "The hell with it! Get me a piece of rope, please!"

Cherie found rope in their hiking gear. I slid it through the loops on the shorts, did a butterfly knot, trimmed the rope, and I was ready.

I don't know if any teenaged boy would be caught dead in it, but it stayed on and that was what mattered. I moved my car into Cherie's garage, slipped on the backpack and jacket, and headed for the subway.

No one stopped me on the subway ride. I started to say 'no one noticed me', but that woulda been a lie. I kept hearing giggles, and caught several sideways glances, but nothing worse than that. Then I got to the Martindale's exit --

--And there was a cop, standing at the Martindale's double-door.

Hell, there was nothing I could do but tighten my jacket around the backpack and go for it. Which I did, trying to appear casual while fear was burning my guts, until the elevator door opened with no comment from the cop.

I stepped inside and, as no one else was on the elevator, I sagged against the wall and gulped in several breaths before I reached my floor.

When I got out of the elevator, I checked to be sure there was no one in the hall, then went to the end, where the sign said, "Emergency Exit". Would an alarm go off if I opened it? Probably, but it would take a few minutes for anyone to get here, and I'd be gone. I opened the door and yes, there was an alarm. I ran down the fire escape as quickly as I could and, at the bottom, rode the ladder down to the alley. The ladder, free of my weight, slid back up as the door I had come out opened high above me. There were some shouts, and a flashlight beam shone on the fire escape. It was weak, and didn't reach the bottom. The alley was dark and they couldn't see me.

The package Chief Editor Ron Porter left me was where it was supposed to be. In the shadows, I quickly changed, putting the clothes from Cherie into the backpack so I would leave no evidence of my presence. I even included the paper that wrapped the package. The tennis shoes felt good on my feet. No socks, but that wasn't a big deal; main thing was, they fit.

Okay, now to test my disguise. The Martindale's end of the alley was closer, so I went that way, but I slowed near the exit when I heard voices.

"Bet it was that humpbacked kid, Lieutenant," a voice said.

'Humpbacked'? The jacket over my backpack! That was a bonus I hadn't realized.

"What humpbacked kid, Officer Casper?" 'Lieutenant' asked.

"Yeah," another voice echoed. So there were at least three of them. "Tell us about it."

"Saw him come outta the subway," Casper said. "Barefoot, blue jacket, shorts tied on with a rope. Real loser, you ask me. I told Martindale's Security team and they checked the store. He ain't anywhere around. You know they couldn't'a missed a humpbacked kid! He's a nutcase, you ask me."

Jacket and shorts were in my backpack, and I wasn't barefoot, but it still seemed a good idea to go the other way.

In a kind of reverse psychology, I started whistling before I got to the newspaper end of the alley. You know, the idea was that if I was trying to sneak by, I certainly wouldn't whistle! I even waved at the cop standing in front of the paper's front door. But then, as I was passing him --

"Hey, kid!" he said. I wanted to run. Every nerve in my body was screaming 'Run! Run! Run!' but I knew that would be a big mistake.

As calmly as I could, I turned and said, "Huh?" The fewer words I used, the less chance my voice would give me away.

"Ain't it 'bout time you wuz home?"

"Goin' there." I grunted.

"Good 'nuff," the policeman said, and looked away. I felt like he woulda seen me trembling if the light was better, but I walked off as steadily as I could. As I walked, I wondered what the hell was going on inside me? I had taken on two of LeGrand's boys, both of them armed, and chopped them to liver. Now I'm afraid to walk past a cop?

Well, there were differences. Then, I had been fully prepared, had known I might need to shoot to kill, but I was ready. Then i was Gale, head on straight and everything. Now I was a teenaged boy, and running away. I wasn't used to running away! Maybe that was it. It certainly isn't due to the fact that all cops are out to kill me; LeGrand has more boys on his payroll than there are cops in the city, and my metal shields were evidence that I knew they would gladly kill me.

In a few blocks I reached my destination -- the YMCA, of course! You think I'm nuts? Hey, it was the last place in the world LeGrand would look for me! Yeah, yeah; how does a female bunk with a bunch of guys? Well, I've heard there are lotsa guys who don't like undressing around others. I had to sleep somewhere. More importantly, they had a bank of public phones in the lobby. Open ones, side by side, no booths, but all I had to do was be sure no one was around when I called the Chief.

The clerk at the desk was a pudgy, fiftyish man. He was bald, except for a strand of white hair he had brushed across the top of his head, trying to look as if he really had hair. His face was round, and he had a small, puckered-up set of disapproving lips. As I stopped in front of him, he greeted me with, "Identification?"

What the hell? I thought the Y was supposed to help young boys, not harass them. Was he just running this by his own rules instead of those established by the YMCA?

"Not old enough to drive," I squeaked, trying for indignity. "What kind of identification do you want?"

"A note from your parents would help," he said, primly.

"Hey, look, they're in Indianapolis!" I said, plucking a distant city at random and no longer trying to disguise my voice. "See my backpack? I'm hiking home. I thought the Y was supposed to be of help!"

In his fastidious, blue-nosed way, he looked down at me. "We can't just accept everyone who comes in off the street." He sniffed in a goody-goody way. "We have to protect our young men."

For yourself? I thought. Then, due to his prissy way, I decided that wasn't right. But I needed a place to stay, so I kept my temper. "Sir," I said, "I just need a place to sleep that's better than one of the city's alleys. I have money," I added, pulling a ten dollar bill from my jeans pocket.

He stiffened, expressing indignation. "Young man," he said, "the YMCA is not in this for the money." He shook his head sadly and with resignation. "Is this just for overnite?" he asked.

"Yessir!" I said, eagerly. "Tomorrow I'll continue on my way."

I registered as 'Carl Wilson from Indianapolis' because I had found out, too late, that Cherie's initials were on the bottom of the backpack. So 'Cherie Wilkerson' was now 'Carl Wilson'. No big deal.

There was no one around the phones, so me and my backpack went over there. Since there had been no light in his office window, I dialed the Chief's home phone.

"Gale!" he said. "So damned glad to hear from you. What's going on?"

"I'm registered at the Y as Carl Wilson," I said, and waited.

"What?" he nearly shouted. There was incredulity in his voice, and an underlying touch of amusement. "The Y?" he asked, and this time there was that booming chuckle.

"Got a crewcut," I explained. "Wearing those jeans. Have a backpack for my typewriter. But I don't have long. Do you have the names of LeGrand's three witnesses?"

"Been tryin' all afternoon," he told me. "No luck. Finally got through to that Dick Bronson guy. He said he might be able to run it down. Wait'll I tell him you're at the Y! Carl Wilson!" His laughter rattled the phone.

"Ah. . .you don't really hafta tell him," I said.

"No choice," he said, now chuckling again. "He said he'd only give me the names if I told him where you were."

I looked around. No one was showing any interest in the phones. "Okay, okay," I said reluctantly. "If that's the only way you can get the names. But," and I paused, shook my head, then went on, "don't get such a kick out of it, Chief! It's the one place LeGrand won't look."

In the middle of his chuckle, he managed to say, "No doubt of that! But," he added, sobering up, "how do I get in touch with you? Just have you paged at the Y?"

"That should work," I agreed. "You'll be my uncle from Indianapolis, with news about my family. You need to get in touch with me right away, even if I'm sleeping. Tell 'em that. Look," I added, "I've gotta get settled in. You need to get off the phone in case Dick calls. If I don't hear from you, I'll call in the morning. See ya!" His laughter was still ringing in my ears after I hung up.

I slept on a bunk in a room full of bunks, some of the boys sleeping, some playing cards, some just whispering to each other. I say 'slept'; actually, I spent most of the time tossing and turning, hoping to hear a page.

I didn't.

The next morning I called the Chief at his office. "Gale! --Ah, excuse me, 'Carl'," he said, and I held the phone away from my ear as his chuckle thundered. "I just got off the phone with Bronson. Got a pencil and paper?"

"Of course!" It had taken a bit of scrambling, but I had managed to obtain them. "Shoot."

"Don't say 'shoot'," the Chief cautioned me. Then he gave me names, addresses, and where they worked. One was even a security guard at Martindale's! Oh, shit; I could've walked right into him last night! Then the Chief added, "How do you plan to handle this, as a teenaged boy?" His amusement was trembling on the edge.

"I'll think of something," I said. Even as I said it, I saw Dick Bronson walk in. "I'll call back later," I told my editor and hung up. On the spur of the moment, I decided to stay there and wait.

Dick's view took in the room, swept over me and to the prudent clerk, then quickly swung back to me. "Carl!" he exclaimed, and I ran to him.

"Dick!" I said, and noticed that the prude clerk was watching.

"I came all the way from Indianapolis," Dick said, as I approached. "Give me a hug!"

"I'll do better than that," I exclaimed and launched myself at him, then planted a big kiss on his mouth.

"Young man!" the clerk cried in astonishment.

"Not in your lifetime," I said in my sexiest voice, and threw him a kiss. I enjoyed the blush on his round face.

Dick laughed as we went to his sports car. When I got in, he told me, "Making progress! The so-called witness that works at Martindale's clocked in just five minutes before the shooting. No way he could be a witness." He pulled away as he said that.

"Yeah -- so he smashes the timeclock so you can't use it," I said resignedly.

"Won't happen," Dick said. "Had a warrant ready, just in case. The timeclock's in my trunk!" He juiced his car's engine and we roared around a corner. "Heading for Culpepper Construction right now. Witness number two works there. Jeff's meeting me there with a warrant for their timeclock -- in case he made the same mistake."

Feeling considerably cheered by his news, I said, "That's great!" Then I sobered. "But why don't you have the warrant for that timeclock yourself?"

"Got a friendly judge. Friendly enough to give me one warrant, that is. Said he'd give me another if the first one turned up anything. Called him, after picking up Martindale's timeclock. Told him I hit the jackpot, and to get me another one for Culpepper's. Not wanting to wait around, I told him Jeff would come by to pick it up. Got you, and now it's time for Culpepper's."

"But won't the guard at Martindale's catch onto what you've done and call ahead?"

Dick shook his head. "He isn't on duty right now."

After a moment's thought, I said, "But you picking up the timeclock will cause a stir. What if he has some friend at Martindale's who calls him?"

"I thought of that," Dick said. "That's why I'm in a hurry to get to Culpepper's." He roared around another corner.

I had just one objection. "The way you're driving, a cop could pull us over for speeding!"

Dick laughed. "They've tried it. I always get away with it because I tell them I'm on DA business. After awhile, they just gave up."

When we reached Culpepper's big gate, he roared through and skidded to a stop in front of their office. Culpepper's was a big spread, with acres of land covered with warehouses, construction machinery, and men who stopped to watch us arrive.

In less than two minutes, Dick came back. "Need that warrant!" Frowning, he picked up a CB mike hanging from his dash. "Base station to Number One," he said. "Base station to --"

Something to my right registered on my ears. I turned to see what it was --

--And a burning sledgehammer seemed to slam into my chest, knocking me back against Dick. "Gale!" he cried, dropping his mike.

Whatever they shot me with sounded to me like a rifle. My chest hurt fiercely, and breathing was difficult, but I could still open my backpack and fumble for my own gun. "I'm. . .okay. . .Dick," I said, as he used his automatic to fire over me. "Let me. . . get up."

He stopped firing and I sat up, typewriter in my hands. I stitched a note across some men standing twenty feet away, some with their own pistols. There were echoing explosions, screams, men falling, men running, and many screaming. Then I caught a movement on top of a warehouse and swung my gun that way, saw a man holding a rifle topple from the roof. Then Dick's automatic was firing again, this time the other way.

"Duck!" I shouted and swung my typewriter around as Dick ducked. Some men were nearly to the sports car. I typed a sentence across them and some fell, others ran. "Let's. . .get outta here!" I suggested, with difficulty in my chest.

"I'm on it!" Dick said, and squealed away in reverse.

The radio was squawking. "Dick! Dick! What the hell's going on?"

We were at the gate leading into Culpepper's. Dick skidded to a stop and picked up the mike. "Jeff! Where are you?"

"Nearly there, Dick. This monster doesn't have much speed."

Even as he said it, the 'monster' came around the corner. It was an armored car!

"How in the world. . . ?" I muttered.

"Jeff's father owns a bank," Dick explained. Then, into the mike, he said, "Stop beside us, Jeff!"

The armored truck pulled to a stop beside the sports car. "Open up!" Dick said. "I'm going in with you."

"Me, too!" I said, painfully getting out of the car.

I sat on a narrow bench behind the two front seats and Dick took the seat ahead of me. "This rig's a good idea, Jeff," I said, after Dick introduced me.

Grinning, Jeff said, "I'm a coward. I don't like getting shot."

He stopped in front of the office. The guys who had been trying to kill us were gone. Everyone seemed to be gone. "I'll be right back," Dick said, getting out with his pistol in his hand. True to his word, in less than two minutes he was back, holding a timeclock. He put it in back with me, and then his eyes widened. "Gale!" he said, "you're white as a sheet. I thought --" Then, as his eyes lowered, he added, "Your jeans are soaked in blood! Jeff, get me back to my car. I've got to get her to the hospital."

"Don't. . .don't be. . .silly. . . ." I tried to protest, but he was sounding like he was talking from the bottom of a well, and my vision was blurring. I was vaguely aware of him carrying me to his car, putting me in the seat, and then I was totally out of it.

+ + +

hen I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. My Chief was seated at my right, and Dick was standing at my left, looking down at me. ". . .Hi," I managed. I weakly lifted a hand.

"Gale!" Dick said. He said it softly because, as the window revealed, it was night. "Thank God!" He took my hand.

With effort, I sat up. "Gotta get. . .outta here," I said. Even as I said it, my muscles failed me and I fell back like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

"No way," the Chief told me. "You've been here two days, and have barely started recovery."

Dick squeezed my hand. "Thanks to you," he said, "everything worked out. Culpepper had accepted a rush job. The witness was on it, and the witness had clocked in. I know, I know; he coulda walked of without clocking out. But we were fortunate enough to find a co-worker of his who, with the promise of anonymity, told the judge they had been working together nearly all night. We didn't even need to check out the third witness! The judge had no alternative but to dismiss the case. You did it, Gale! You beat LeGrand."

I shrugged -- and it hurt! "He's still in business," I said.

"Might not be for long," Chief Porter said. "With the failure of his case against you, more people are interested in a Grand Jury Inquest. With enough cooperation, that can bring him down."

"He's done for, kid," Dick said, grinning. "All you need to do is get well."

A thought bubbled to the top of my mind. "My shield," I said. "What happened? It was supposed to protect me."

With a grin, Dick bent over and picked something off the floor. He held my shield up over my face. There was a stalactite over an inch long hanging from the inside. "It did protect you," Dick said. "That rifle bullet didn't penetrate much over an inch. But that inch stabbed you deeply and barely missed your lungs. Hammer's going to have to make some adjustments. Still, it saved your life, for which I'm very grateful." He bent over and kissed me.

I might have been weak, but I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him back. Hard.